The Lost Boy
by Amaranthis
Summary: Peter visits an older Wendy late one night to converse with her about her old decision regarding Neverland, and whether or not she thinks the choice she had made was a mistake. One-Shot.


The Lost Boy

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So when he asks me what happened - and why I'm the way that I am - I tell him that it's because human beings are like lit candles; slowly and unavoidably the years burn away and leave us as nothing more than piles of melted wax, corrugated and rigid and hanging pendulously off of the candelabrum. Gradually, smiles turn to wrinkles and memories fade to nothing but dust beneath the bedroom cabinet. I tell him that I'm not perfect like he is; that I'm full of errors, that age creeps upon me as the flame creeps down the wick, and that I - unlike him - have got a drawer full of dreams that I didn't chase fast enough and a pantry crammed with disappointments that were beckoned by all the bad choices I had ever made. Then he asks me what a pantry is, and I tell him, quick as a wink. But when he inquires whether or not leaving Neverland was one of my bad choices, I find myself unable to give him a direct answer; and so I offer him a genuine smile, instead, and let him decide what it means. But Peter, contumacious as usual, persists in prodding the question towards me for a second time, his tone noticeably more demanding.

And so I tell him that I'm not entirely certain; that the very moment he asked me such a difficult query I could feel the ice of uncertainty chill my body, and that my fingertips are still cold. I tell him that – despite how I was so convinced as a child that what I had wanted was to be at home – the naked truth was: when I'd hit an older age, my mind had filled with hopeless romance and doting memories of fairy dust.

Well, he says nothing, and at first I consider him thoughtful. But then it occurs to me that his nose is crinkled from a failure to understand my words correctly. I laugh and tell him that he's as cute as a button, which makes him glow red with embarrassment; and I'm relieved, because it's far easier to change the subject and vex him than it is to simplify or elaborate on how I truly feel about my old decision regarding Neverland.

Then suddenly he asks me, "Are you happy?" And it catches me so off guard that my smile is smeared messily from my face, as though I had painted it there with clown make-up to begin with, and Peter – young Peter – had gotten irked by the phony expression enough to take a wet cloth to it. His eyes watch me, speckled with determination.

And so I tell him the truth.

"Yes." I say, "Of course I am." He offers an upset look that makes me feel uneasy before dipping his head so that he doesn't have to see me anymore. I bite into my tongue disappointedly, filling my mouth with the unpleasant taste of copper as I wait nervously for him to say something.

"But you're old…" Peter whispers to me finally, and my muscles tense. He fidgets where he sits, his fingers pressing together with uneasiness before he speaks again, his voice cracking: "You're dying…"

I inhale deeply and close my eyes.

"Oh Peter Pan…" I admonish tiredly, "Come here, Peter." He stares doubtfully as I pat my lap, bewildered at what it is that I want from him exactly. But eventually he catches on to what it is I'm demanding, and he seats himself upon my bony knees. I stroke his hair with slender fingers, and it's far rougher than I ever recall it being; and as I pull a dead leaf from his damaged tresses I realize how I can word my next phrase delicately, so I say to him: "Do you remember a time when you were cornered by Hook and his men? And you honestly thought you were going to die, but you weren't frightened, because... oh, what was it you said?" I could tell by his lack of response that he was waiting idly for me to fill in the blanks for him, "You told me that 'to die would be a grand adventure'."

He hiccupped and wailed and snorted and complained that he hadn't really meant it, and it had never occurred to me - in all of the times I had told my mother he was rather cocky - that the great Peter Pan could be so childish and vulnerable. And the tears reminded me of a perpetual downpour of rain, and I thought the painful sound of his blues would last until Doomsday.

But then I said to him, "Why don't I sew that pocket of yours, Peter?" And he stopped, just like that.

And as I looped the gleaming needle through the leafy material of his emerald tunic, I found myself telling him stories of Cinderella and her Seven Brides Maids, or Sleeping Beauty and the Prince's Thimble.

I was relieved by his disgust when I told the second, and even more relieved when he told me that he would never give a girl a thimble. And as I opened the window to let him out of my bedroom so that he could catch the bus for his splendent star to Neverland, I caught myself demanding: "Don't you dare grow up... ever."

He smiled at me, 'thimbled' my nose, then told me goodnight.

And never did the boy from Neverland return to my windowsill again.


End file.
